Need You Now
by Instead of Reality
Summary: Voldemort has finally been defeated, but many have paid the ultimate sacrifice. Those who remain are trying to heal, with varying degrees of success. Ron and Hermione have pushed each other away in their hurt. One-shot; rated M for language and themes.


**Need You Now**

**A Harry Potter Fan-Fic**

**Song:** "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum

**Summary**: Voldemort has finally been defeated, but many have paid the ultimate sacrifice. Those who remain are trying to heal, with varying degrees of success. Ron and Hermione have pushed each other away in their hurt. One-shot.

**Author's Note**: I own neither the characters nor the lyrics. Also, very super angsty. Sorry.

* * *

The setting sun cast an orange light that filled the room and created shadows about Hermione Granger, who lay sprawled on the floor, shuffling through stacks and stacks of photographs. She paused momentarily, pushing a lock of brown hair out of her face, and gazed at the window. She felt a little disoriented, the way she always felt when she resurfaced from some project that had totally absorbed her concentration. She smiled to herself, a twisted, painful smile, reminded of all the projects she had poured herself into before...with them...with him.

Everything reminded her of him. There was no way she could escape him. He smiled from every photo in the flat. His voice haunted her dreams. His son slept in the room next to hers.

Feeling the tears threatening, Hermione pushed the melancholy thoughts away with practice long in the making. She sighed and turned back to the task at hand.

"You'll never finish all of that, 'Mione. You'll need to borrow Flamel's recipe for the Elixir of Life to have enough time to get that done." Hermione glanced up at her roommate, who looked a lot more tired than a nineteen-year-old should be. She stifled a yawn behind her hand. Hermione sat up slowly, stretching the kinks out of her body.

"When was the last time you got more than two hours of sleep in a row?" she asked worriedly, taking in the lines around Ginny Weasley's eyes. Was that a white hair growing from her friend's scalp?

Ginny shrugged her shoulders. "Three years ago, probably."

"Why don't you go to bed now? It's only quarter to eight. You could get a decent night's sleep," Hermione suggested.

"Nah, I can't," Ginny said, trying to speak around another jaw-cracking yawn. "Luna asked me to meet her out tonight. Y'know, grab some food and talk—catch up."

Hermione's brow furrowed deeper. It wasn't that she didn't _like_ Luna Lovegood; it was just that Luna brought back too many memories, painful memories. "Ginny, are you sure you want to do that? I mean—"

"No," Ginny said, sounding very much like she was trying to control her anger, "I want to go. And yes, I want to catch her up for old times' sake. I need this."

Reacting to the redhead's tone of voice, Hermione tried to placate her. "I'm not trying to be mean, Gin! I'm just worried about you. I don't think talking about... the old times...is the best idea—" They'd had this argument before, or a semblance of it whenever Ginny would try to reconstruct what life was like back then, _before_.

"It is for me. Remembering before. You can't just forget about what's happened. Sure, I'll probably cry a lot, but I'll probably laugh a lot too. When was the last time _you_ laughed?"

Ginny turned on her heel and stalked from the room. Within moments, Hermione heard the bathroom door slamming and the shower water running. Hermione sighed, and winced away the sucker punch she felt near her heart. Ginny dealt with her grief very differently from Hermione. Hermione remained mostly emotionless, holding everything inside, refusing to discuss it. Ginny was emotional, sobbing and laughing and always wanting to _talk_ about it.

Hermione turned back to the big, red, leather scrapbook. By now, she had to have sorted everything roughly into years...

She was interrupted by the sound of a cry coming from the bedroom. She ignored it, hoping either he would go back to sleep or Ginny would hear him. But five minutes later, the crying had only increased and the shower was still on. Sighing, Hermione rose from the brown carpet and walked down the hall. Softly, she opened the door. The crying stopped abruptly as little arms reached up to be lifted from the crib.

"Mama?"

Hermione looked down in his bright green eyes, still wet with tears, and felt the familiar welling of emotion—love for this child, here, and despair for his father, gone. He gestured again with his arms and she complied, cradling the boy to her and smoothing his black hair down from where it stood in spikes all over his precious head.

"Looks like it's just going to be you and me tonight, Jamey," she told the boy as she carried him into the kitchenette. She and Ginny had wanted a larger kitchen, but to rent a flat in London with two bedrooms and a full kitchen cost more Muggle money than either could afford. Searching through the cabinet, she found a box of cereal and poured a bunch into James' favorite plastic bowl. With James happily munching, she leaned back against the counter and just watched him. He was so like his father, it scared her. His smile, his eyes, his laugh, the endearing way he would glance at her every now and then—as if he was making sure she was all right.

"Oh, are you feeding him?" Ginny asked, as she walked into the kitchen. She was dressed in a jade green blouse and a neat black skirt, and her long red hair dripped down her back as she started making tea. "I meant to tell you, Mum said she'd take him tonight. She's wanted to have him to herself for a while. She'd said she'd stop by around eight-thirty for him."

Hermione just nodded, still a little stung by Ginny's earlier comment. _When was the last time you laughed?_ She accepted the offered mug and sipped her tea. Both girls watched the little boy play with his food, awkwardly avoiding eye contact.

"Look, Hermione. I didn't mean to hurt you by what I said earlier," Ginny said quietly. "I just...it's just I need this. It's nice to talk about it with someone who's going through the same thing I am, or at least, someone who knows. I'd talk to you, but...you don't like to talk about it, and I get that. Really." Hermione looked at her best friend, whose eyes were soft. "But I do think that talking about it will help you. Blimey, I think crying would help you. You haven't cried once since Harry's funeral. I've cried enough for the two of us, I guess," Ginny tried to chuckle at herself.

Hermione smiled weakly. She never cried anymore, because what use would crying do?

As if Ginny could read her thoughts, the redhead wrapped her arms around Hermione. "Crying doesn't do much, yes, but it can make you feel better. Letting out your sorrow doesn't disrespect him. Remembering why we miss him, that's what he would want. You and I, we aren't the only ones. My mother lost one son and a boy she thought of as her seventh son. James lost his father. Ro—many people lost their friend. Don't make James grow up like Harry did, without knowing anything of his parents."

"At least he has you," Hermione whispered softly.

Ginny smiled crookedly. "Yes, he's got me, as his wretchedly unprepared mum. But what of his father's best friends? You're James' godmother. He needs you, too. And he needs you to tell him of his father."

"That's why I'm making the scrapbook, isn't it? Honestly, Gin, I wouldn't want to look at those pictures if it weren't for James."

"I know that, but I'm hoping that it helps you too."

Hermione cradled her tea cup, breathing in the warm aroma rising from the brew. "How will it help me? Harry's gone, I'm just looking at him smiling and waving at me from the photo. Everything in those photos is gone now. That life is dead." Like an old blanket, the feeling of loss wrapped around her. She lowered her lips to the rim of her cup, eyes closed.

"Not everyone is dead."

Hermione paused, her eyes slowly opening, staring down into the brown liquid.

"I know," she answered lightly. "We're here, after all."

"Ron's not dead," Ginny said quietly.

Hermione froze.

"Hermione, listen." Ginny was talking very quickly, knowing that she only had a few seconds before Hermione would bolt. "Ron's hurting just as much as you are. He needs you. And you need him. You—"

Hermione kept calm, though her arms were shaking. She placed the cup down carefully on the table before she spoke. "Ginny, I know he's your brother. And I know he was my friend."

"I just think that you should reconsider. I mean...Oh, Hermione. I just think that you're trying to destroy all the emotion in your life. And I think that it's better to hurt, to hurt like hell, than to feel nothing at all. Or else you're dead yourself."

Hermione's voice fell like chips of ice. "But I asked you not to talk to me about him. He's gone, he's gone just as much as Harry is."

_**Picture perfect memories scattered all around the floor  
**__**Reaching for the phone 'cause I can't fight it anymore  
**__**And I wonder if I ever cross your mind…  
**__**For me, it happens all the time**_

Luna had come and gone, off with Ginny to the Leaky Cauldron. Mrs. Weasley had come and gone, off with James to the Burrow. Hermione was all alone now.

She had hovered the fine line of never wanting to be alone and always wanting to be alone. This was the first time, in a long time, that she was truly by herself. Usually she was with Ginny or James or both, babysitting. Ginny was only a girl still, a little girl with huge shoes to fill. Harry had died at Voldemort's hands and had sacrificed his life for them all. But though Voldemort had succeeded in killing Harry, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort. Hermione had reasoned that because Voldemort had Harry's—and in effect, Lily's—blood in his veins, Voldemort's killing that protection, killed all the protection it had offered the Dark Lord himself. This must have been the power the Dark Lord knew not, she figured. Hermione often found herself wishing that if she could not bring back Harry, she'd like to bring back Dumbledore and demand why this was the way to bring about the downfall of Voldemort—that Voldemort's death could even begin to justify Harry's! Had Dumbledore known this was to be the way of it? _Never can live while the other survives_, the prophecy had said. It hadn't said that _both_ of them had to die.

But still, though Harry died, he did leave behind something. His son. There was a reason that Harry hadn't wanted Ginny to fight in the battle at Hogwarts. Hermione never figured out exactly where Ginny and Harry had met to conceive their child, but eight months after the death of his father, James Arthur Potter had been born. And there was no question as to who his father was: James was a carbon copy of Harry.

It made Hermione sad. Ginny had that piece of Harry to cling to, and Hermione felt as if she was clutching nothing. It's not that she would have wanted to have carried Harry's child; she hadn't wanted Harry like that. She'd had another on her mind...

No. She wouldn't think about _that_ him.

But she couldn't help herself. She was alone with her thoughts. And no matter how hard she tried to think about Harry (as painful as that was), she couldn't help but find her thoughts drifting back to Ron.

Ron...with his bright orange hair and freckles and blue eyes...his laughter, his tears, his smiles, his hands...his loyalty, his determination, his pride, his jealousy, his thick-headedness, his temper...his strong arms, holding and cradling her, as she wept near Harry's coffin, his tears mingling with her own...Ron's fingers combing through her tangled hair as she sobbed herself to sleep...Ron's lips touching hers, hesitantly, then more passionately, his hands drawing her closer and closer...his voice raised louder and louder, competing with hers..."You're obsessed with him! What about me?"...and then their goodbye…

Hermione violently shook her head. No, no, no. She'd managed for so long without him. She turned back to the scrapbook laid in front of her, but there he was, in his Hogwarts robes, smiling at her, his blue eyes alight and warm. She threw that photo aside.

The next photo was of Harry, Ginny, herself, and Ron. All four were standing in line. Ginny and Hermione were facing the camera, obviously laughing at something. Harry had one arm around Ginny and was smiling down on her tenderly. And Ron, Ron stood with his hands in his pockets, grinning crookedly, but his eyes never left Hermione. She stuck that one under the book.

The third photo was the newspaper clipping of the Weasley family in Egypt. Hermione's eyes went straight to the thirteen year-old Ronald, clutching Scabbers (Peter Pettigrew, she corrected herself) and grinning under dark freckles. Trying to find another focus, she looked at the other dearly-loved faces. Her heart constricted a little at Fred's face, so alive and mischievous. Fred, the boy she had taken to task so often for his rule-breaking. How was she to have known that he would not be there to pull his pranks for the rest of her life? She would have hugged him every day. She would have told him that his jokes always amused her—she would have let him see how much they made her laugh. Eyes beginning to fill, she pushed away the newspaper, just as Fred stuck a beetle down Percy's collar.

The fourth was from the Yule Ball; Hermione didn't even know who had taken it. She and Viktor were dancing back and forth, in and out of the frame. Harry and Ron sat at the table, scowling. Hermione smiled, her heart tugging at Ron's darkened expression. The photo-Ron looked away, and Hermione thought, for a second, that he was fighting back tears.

Quickly, she flipped over that picture and the fifth was just her and Ron. Her heart stuttered. Of all the pictures, this one... She could hear the rush of the stream, the cool water her feet dangled in... Harry had taken the picture, while the three of them had been on their extended camping trip of 1998. It had been when they had still been relatively optimistic about the whole thing. Ron had one arm casually slung over Hermione's shoulder and they had been facing the camera, cheesing it up. But just before the shutter flashed, both had slightly turned their faces towards each other. Hermione remembered the feeling, the nervous fluttering in her stomach as their eyes had met. In reality, they had looked away from each other awkwardly after the camera flashed. But in the picture, their photo-selves continued to be locked on each other's gaze. The real Hermione watched, just as transfixed as her photo-self, as Ron touched her cheek, and mouthed 'I love you.' The two Hermiones gasped as the photo-Ron gently leaned down and kissed the photo-Hermione's mouth.

And in that moment, the real Hermione's heart fell off the cliff it had danced on the edge of for so long. Its plummet took it down and down, through her rib cage, her stomach, her intestines, her legs, her feet, and kept falling as if into a bottomless pit.

No! No! No! I don't need this! I don't want this! Hermione threw the photo away from her. _No! I don't need this_! And yet, there was a stone in her chest, one whose weight she'd been carrying since May 2, 1998. The one whose weight she had grown so accustomed to that she no longer felt. But now, that stone felt like a boulder and she couldn't hold it up anymore. There was no one to help her grapple with it, no one to help her try to lift it back into place. Harry was dead. Ginny was gone for the night. No one else knew her. She trusted no one else, because no one else could understand. And even if the two of them were here, they still wouldn't be the one she needed.

Her next thought burned in her brain with a feverish and desperate intensity. She needed to see Ron, to talk to him, to be near him..._now_.

_**It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone  
**__**And I need you now  
**__**Said I wouldn't call but I lost all control  
**__**And I need you now  
**__**And I don't know how I can do without…  
**__**I just need you now**_

He took another pull of the firewhiskey in front of him and slammed the empty glass down on the bar.

"Another?" the bartender asked. He nodded. "You sure? That's your fourth."

Ron grunted and gestured for Beau to pour him some more. To hell with it all. It was half past eleven and Mum was home, playing with James. It was hard being in the same room with the tyke, for all he looked like Harry. So he had come here, to the Wolf's Bite. It was the closest pub to the Burrow; he didn't have time to travel all the way to London for the Leaky Cauldron. Muggles and magical folk mixed here, though the Muggles were unaware that the person next to them couldn't fathom the use of a microwave but could kill them with a flick of the wrist. They thought that the scars on the bartender's face were from a wolf attack...well, that was true to some extent...but they didn't know it was from a werewolf attack by one Fenrir Greyback, and that Beau himself was a werewolf.

Beau raised his eyes and took Ron's glass, muttering. Ron slumped over and stared at the mahogany wood that made up the bar. Here and there were scratches from other patrons.

_I love Jimmy. _

_Death to Death Eaters!_

_Call Amanda for a good time._

_R.I.P. John._

_Don't trust Mathilda. She's a skank. _

_Nick + Aubrey = Forever._

_Voldemort sucks._

_Love bites. _

_Rest in Peace, Harry Potter._

"Here." Beau slammed the whiskey glass on the bar, making Ron jump. He wrapped his hand around the cold glass and picked it up, but didn't drink. He watched the golden liquid as he swirled it around and around. The color of fire in a glass, he thought, as he downed it in two gulps. He looked around for Beau, but he was on the other side of the bar, serving another patron. Ron stared into his empty glass. The firewhiskey was still burning down his throat, a welcome relief to the burning in his heart.

The bells over the doorframe jingled and Ron looked over to see a young woman enter the bar. Not recognizing her as a regular, he turned back to the bar and his self-misery.

"Is anyone sitting here?"

Ron turned and saw the woman who had just come in standing behind him. He shook his head dumbly and she slid onto the bar stool next to him. She was dressed casually, which was not typical of women at bars, Ron thought. It wasn't like he paid much attention to the opposite sex anyway, but when you're always at a bar, it's rather hard to not notice. Usually girls came in, in their tiny skirts and shirts and ten-inch heels, falling over themselves drunk. But this one was different. Sporting jeans and a jumper, her brown-red hair hung long down her back and she had no make-up on. And she didn't seem drunk.

Beau came over. "Butterbeer, please," the girl ordered.

"Bottle or tap?" Beau asked.

"Bottle, please. It's hot outside."

Ron raised his eyebrow at the unusual order. The girl had to be a witch then, if she was ordering butterbeer— Muggles didn't order that particular drink. And who ordered butterbeer at this time of night? This wasn't the time for casual drinking. It was the time for those who are dwelling on the past to occupy the bar, and that generally required something much stronger.

Like firewhiskey.

_**Another shot of whiskey  
**__**Can't stop looking at the door  
**__**Wishing you'd come sweeping in the way you did before  
**__**And I wonder if I ever cross your mind…  
**__**For me, it happens all the time**_

Beau called for the last rounds. Ron looked up at the clock, which read one.

He'd been here for four hours.

It wasn't unusual for him to be here this long, but he generally was much drunker than he was now. And usually his time at the bar was slow, as if time were an old man steadily crawling up a hill. However, tonight, time had flown by.

The girl, Jolene, had left about an hour ago.

After Beau had handed her the butterbeer, they'd sat in silence for a moment, until Ron had asked her why she was drinking butterbeer. She'd shrugged and told him that she'd never cared for anything stronger. Ron had then told her she'd never feel better if she didn't drink liquor, and she'd curiously asked him why she needed to feel better.

"Sure, today wasn't the greatest," she'd said. "But tomorrow'll be better. And if not tomorrow, the day after that."

Ron had only grunted at that, and taken a swig from his newly-filled mug.

"Well, why are you drinking firewhiskey? Why do you think it'll make you feel better?"

He'd choked a little, and sputtered a little, then stared at her. The way she had said it made him feel an awful lot like an alcoholic. The worst part was he hadn't been able to answer her question. She had apologized, after a few minutes of silence, saying that it wasn't any of her business. Ron had shrugged it off. She'd introduced herself, probably because she felt bad for making him sound like a drunkard, and he'd grunted his first name. She started asking him about where he had gone to school. He'd responded curtly that he'd gone to Hogwarts, and asked her about her education. She'd told him about going to a little rinky-dink private magic academy for witches in Ireland because her Irish grandfather refused to have her trained by "English pigs." Her father then got transferred to France, and she'd gone off with him and finished her schooling at Beauxbatons. And yes, she answered to Ron's question, she'd known the Delacours. She'd asked how Ron knew Fleur and Gabrielle, he'd told her how Fleur was now married to his oldest brother Bill. The Triwizard Tournament meant mentioning Harry's name, something Ron stringently avoided doing to strangers.

"You're a Weasley?" she'd asked, surprised. Ron, a little confused and stunned, nodded. "I...can't believe it! You must be Ron Weasley!"

Ron had grinned weakly. It was funny how this had started happening. For all that time that he had been so jealous of Harry and had wanted just a little bit of Harry's fame, he'd give it all back. Just for a chance with his best mate again. Besides, once people recognized him, they always knew him as Harry Potter's best friend.

Jolene did something different. The second she said it, she had clapped her hands over her mouth.

"I'm so sorry! I shouldn't have said anything. No wonder—"

"It's really all right."

"I didn't mean...How, how is everything?"

Ron had looked up at her, and found himself wanting to cry. The last thing she should have thought of was how he was feeling, but somehow she'd jumped right to it. There were no questions about Harry, nothing. She wrapped her arms around him and hugged him. He had tensed up. This was the first time in a long time anyone had hugged him. Sure, his mum would pat him on the head, and Ginny greeted him, but no one else dared touch the grumpy ginger.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I don't mean to be forward. But I'm sure this has all been dreadful. What Harry Potter did was a brave thing, but it doesn't hurt any less, does it?"

Ron had wondered how girls found the best ways to say things. He'd always botched them. Somehow, her kindness had made him pour out his heart, to this stranger at the bar. Slowly, his hurt and his pain and his despair formed coherent words. Jolene had patted his head and cried a few tears. Ron couldn't help but feel a bit pleased by that. Not many girls cried for him.

"At least you have your friend Hermione."

Ron had shaken his head, his heart pierced at the sound of her name. Jolene seemed to grasp the idea.

"What happened?" she'd asked quietly.

Ron's response took a while coming, but it poured out of him. As soon as he finished the painful tale, he swallowed the rest of his firewhiskey.

"I'll not give ya any more, Ronald Weasley," snapped Beau, when Ron had held up his glass for more. "That's your sixth. You still have t' get home in one piece. I'll not have your mother beatin' me for inebriatin' her son."

Ron had flushed, ears burning. He was twenty-one years old, for Merlin's sake, and he was still threatened with being tattled on to his mother.

"Well, I had better be going. Dad'll behead me if I'm not home by midnight."

Ron had appreciated that she, too, was still treated like as an underage. Hesitantly, she hugged him and gave him a peck on the cheek. Ron's eyes widened at the contact, and he tentatively touched his cheek. She'd smiled sadly at him.

"You'd be easy to fall in love with, I think, Ron Weasley."

Ron had stuttered at this. Easy to fall in love with? _Him_?

"But I know that Hermione Granger's got a hold on you deeper than you could shake off for a silly girl like me. It's like one of those books where the author meant all along for the two of you to end up together."

"But, why—why'd she'd leave me?" he demanded. "You're a girl. You probably understand these things. Was she in love with Harry?"

Jolene had sunk back onto the stool for a moment. "I don't think so. At least, it doesn't sound like it. I haven't lost my best friend, but I lost both my grandfather and brother a few years back, and my mother died when I was twelve." Ron had started to offer his condolences, but she waved them away. "I don't like to talk about it, because I usually just start crying. See?" She wiped her eyes, gone suspiciously wet. "When you lose someone, when they are ripped away from you, it's hard to be happy. Sure, little things stay the same, but the big things, especially if that person was so vital to your everyday existence—it's hard to smile and enjoy things. More likely, you're afraid that being happy disrespects their memory. That if you're happy and laughing, you'll forget the person you lost. I think she's probably so afraid that by being happy, by feeling love, she'll forget Harry. Because he's gone, she can't be happy, because he isn't there to complete it. We assume that everyone who dies is miserable, but I don't think that's the case. Since there is no more pain, I think that they are blissful and I think they want us to enjoy life because we still have it. To enjoy life for them." She gazed up at him, and he read her own pain in her eyes. She was speaking from her heart. She knew.

"I think I understand, but what..." he stopped, because he wasn't sure what he was going to ask. "Thank you," he'd said, trying to express his gratitude. He could see a glimmer, a light at the end of the tunnel.

Jolene had nodded and kissed his cheek softly. "We both are searching for a sign, and there are so many things that we don't know. We're both questions...and I think your answer is closer than mine. Good luck." And then she'd Apparated.

Now, as the clock's hand itched past one, Ron couldn't stop replaying the scene over and over in his mind. It was like Jolene could read his mind, and he felt perturbed. A small part of him wished he had gotten her full handle, or found out where she lived. Hadn't she said she could fall in love with him? Life wouldn't be so bad with a girl who understood him at a cursory glance, now would it? But his heart sneered at him. What about Hermione? No. Without Hermione, his life was dark. Jolene had been nice. She had understood, but Hermione understood, and Hermione had passion, and Hermione knew how to fight him. Jolene had hinted at things; Hermione spelled things out for him.

Like that damn comment about drinking. Hermione would have knocked the glass out of his hand.

Why did he drink? Because Harry and Fred were dead and Hermione had left him. Why? Because it made him feel better. Why? Because...he didn't know.

Damn Socratic method.

Ron hated all these questions and answers bubbling inside him. He didn't have any answers, never had. Like Jolene had said. It had always been Hermione who knew the answer. Always, Hermione. Where was his answer? he thought pensively.

Hermione.

Hermione was the answer to his question.

Except…

He glanced towards the door, as if she'd walk in, as if simply wishing could make her appear. But if wishing made things happen, then she'd be his. They'd be married, with Harry as best man, and Fred pulling pranks left and right.

Chances were she didn't even spare him a thought. And yet, she burned behind every thought of his.

Even as he glanced again at the door, he hoped she would arrive, but knew she wouldn't. As well as she knew him, he knew her better. Watching her for years, unsure of why he couldn't take his eyes off her, he knew every quirk of habit that made up Hermione Granger.

He knew Hermione, just as well as he knew himself. And he knew his place in life pretty damn well. He was the sixth son and child, to a mother who desperately wanted a little girl, in a family who had all the love to give but couldn't afford. He was the least of his brothers, who all had found a way to make themselves individuals. He was the sidekick best friend to the most famous British boy in the wizarding world. The most famous British boy in the wizarding world who now lay six feet under.

Harry had been the closest person to Ron on earth, his best friend. He had known Harry, too, better than he knew himself, because Harry had become his life. Harry had given Ron more perspective on his own meager existence: that he, Ron, was so lucky to have grown up with his crazy, hair-raising, loving family, because Harry had none of that. His parents had been murdered before he could truly know them and he'd grown up downtrodden and hated by the very worst kind of Muggles. Ron had never been able to see how demented his jealousy of Harry truly was, at least not until his death. And even then and even now, jealousy reared its ugly head when he thought of Harry and Hermione…together. It was an awful, consuming monster that lived within him. Even though Harry was gone, dead gone, there was something between Harry and Hermione that Ron wanted to break. She had walled herself in her misery, in missing Harry…

He, Ron, had been there! He was Harry's friend, too! What was so special about missing Harry that he couldn't understand? The frustration, the anger, the hurt, the envy…he could still feel it coursing through his veins. He clenched the edge of the bar tighter, the emotions hitting him like the Whomping Willow. But the emotion that was the most powerful, the most overwhelming was the love that barreled him over like the Hogwarts Express. Despite the negative emotion he connected with Hermione Granger, he was so consumed with loving her…he didn't hate her. He knew he was mad at Harry. He could blame Harry—Harry was dead! He could hate Harry, just a little bit. But hate Hermione? The concept barely existed. He could be mad, could be angry, could be furious with her. But he couldn't hate her.

At school, when he was annoyed and irritated in connection with the busy-haired know-it-all, he would be upset at himself and his feelings, not at her. Why wasn't he good enough for her? Why wasn't he able to find a way to bring her back to him?

"Ron, shouldn't ya be going home?"

"Huh?" Ron looked up at Beau, who was watching him carefully. "Oh, yeah. 'Suppose."

"Get on wit'cha, then, lad. Isn't there someone at home who needs ya?"

"Not really," Ron mumbled, sliding off the bar stool. Mum was content in lavishing all her love on Harry and Ginny's son. Christ! Harry had a son with the girl he loved and he was dead. Bill and a pregnant Fleur were still at Shell Cottage and Charlie was with the dragons again. Percy and Dad were neck-high immersed in re-establishing the Ministry, patching up the holes Voldemort's reign had ripped in the wizarding world. George was trying to move on and was spending a lot of time with Angelina Johnson from the Gryffindor Quidditch team; his wounds went a lot deeper than a missing ear—he was missing half of his self. Ginny was living somewhere in London, probably in a flat. She had been rather vague about where and who she was living with, but Ron hadn't pushed.

"I'll bet someone needs ya somewhere." Beau was looking at him with his keen wolf-y blue eyes.

Ron started to shake his head. His family was finding their own way to move on, and he wasn't. No one needed a shoulder to lean on or someone to cry against.

Goddammit, he needed that. And there was only one shoulder he wanted to cry against. Only one person he wanted to hold.

"I don't know if she needs me. But I sure as hell need her." He banged his fist down. "It's as if two years—more than two years...!"

Beau shook his head at Ron. "One or th' both of ya have yer heads up yer arse."

Ron scowled at the bartender as he stalked through the door. The night was chilly, and the fire in the whiskey had done nothing to sooth him. Kicking the pavement, he hunched his shoulders forward as he Apparated.

"'Bout time you got home."

Ron turned around and saw his little sister standing in front of him. She was obviously here to pick up James. Ron felt ashamed, knowing he should have spent time with his godson and nephew, but he had chickened out, frightened away by the babe's green eyes.

"How are you, Ginny?"

"Fine." Looking closer, he could see that she's been crying.

"Hey." His voice softened as he hugged her shoulders. She smiled up at him through her tears.

"Thanks. I'm all right, though."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," she laughed lightly. "Do _you_ need help? You reek of alcohol."

"I'm fine," he growled. He abruptly got up and started to move away.

"Ron, wait." He thought about ignoring her and just marching upstairs to his attic room and sleeping off what was sure to be a massive hangover.

"What?" he said heavily.

"I promised her I'd never tell you where we lived, but I think that it's a dumb promise and it's hurting her just as much as it's hurting you."

"Who?"

Ginny snorted. "Who do you think?"

Ron tried to say her name, but found that he couldn't. He just sort of mumbled a few unintelligible sounds.

"The love of your life for the past ten years, you git. I've been living been with her in a flat in London."

"That's nice." It was all he could say, because what else was there?

"Ron, I'm telling you where she is. I'm not there—James and I will stay here tonight. Go see her." Ginny laid a gentle hand on his arm. It was different from the roughhouse way Ginny used to be, the way she couldn't help to be, having six older brothers. This tender motion, this gentleness, was part of the new Ginny, the mother Ginny now was.

"Ginny, I just can't go. Bloody hell, she told me that she never wanted to see me again." He meant for it to sound gruff, but it choked him and it almost poured out of him as a sob.

"If you don't go now, you'll never get her back. Ever. Do you want to live without her for the rest of your life?"

"You heard what she said to me, Gin! She said I didn't care Harry was gone! That I didn't hurt the way I was supposed to for my best friend! 'How can you feel anything other than grief right now?' That's what she said!"

"I know what she said, Ron. And I know what you said. The entire house could hear your riffs. Hermione has a one-track mind. Why do you think she did so well in school? She focuses all her energy on one thing. So while you doodled on your Potions notes, she studied. She couldn't think about loving you, of being happy with you, if she was thinking about missing Harry."

"So Harry was more important than me!"

"Ron, shut up and think. Use your drunken skull. If you wake up James, I'll hex you into the next life and you can go hang with Harry. Hermione loves you, but doesn't want Harry to be forgotten. If she's happy about you, she thinks she'll forget him."

"Why can't I be the one she can't live without?" Ron whined, keenly aware that he sounded like his nephew.

"She's not living, Ron. She's _existing_. Now go put your big boy knickers on and talk some sense into her."

"I just can't go, Gin. I'm…I'm…"

"Drunk? Yeah, I know. Go."

Ron had no argument and, maybe it was the firewhiskey thinking, but it sounded like a good idea. A vision of Hermione swam in his mind, her eyes wet and her arms wide open, beckoning him. His heart tightened in his chest with need as he raised his wand.

_**It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk  
**__**And I need you now  
**__**Said I wouldn't call but I lost all control  
**__**And I need you now  
**__**And I don't know how I can do without…  
**__**I just need you now**_

She was frightened by it. The urgent need. It was so long since she'd felt the gaping void in her stomach. Not for food, but for someone. It wasn't just desire, though there was that. Just his presence. Just to see his face. Not just a photograph. To hear his voice. She giggled a little at the thought of telephoning him, knowing how disastrous any phone call with him went.

You can withhold, she scolded herself as she put the almost-empty bottle to her lips. This will pass, like always. You've managed for years without him. Two years and four months, a small part of her mind calculated, since their last big fight. _This too will pass_.

She wouldn't let herself think about the nasty words that had been flung, the stupidity of the arguments, and the hurt in his eyes. Shaking it all away as best as she could, she cast her eyes about the room, hoping for some small diversion. Something to distract her from the misery that encased her life.

Her diversion arrived in the form of a loud bang as the front door of the flat flew open.

And, like a mirage, he was there, standing in the doorway.

At first, he looked awkward, and she half-expected him to offer that sheepish grin she loved so well. But he didn't. She scrambled up from where she had been lying on the floor. The moment they locked eyes, his shoulders squared. He took one step in the doorway, and then another, and another, and another. He loomed closer and closer. She couldn't move, couldn't breathe. She had no idea whether he was going to do. Would he hurt her?

Finally, he stood before her. She could smell the alcohol on his breath. She could count every freckle on his face. She looked into his blue eyes, so deep and so full of emotion that all of the oxygen in her lungs disappeared and she felt as if she couldn't breathe.

His name caught in her throat. She hadn't said his name in years and she had force the syllable from her voice box, over her tongue, past her teeth, between her lips. "Ron."

He heard her say his name, using the barest whisper of breath. Breath that had been in her body that was now used to say his name, his name that she had sworn never to utter. His thundering heart flipped inside his ribcage as he watched her large brown eyes glinting, speaking volumes that he hadn't had a chance to read in forever and thought he'd never read again.

And then he grabbed her and kissed her hard.

At the touch of his lips on hers, she could breathe again and it was the sweetest air she'd ever inhaled. She melted and he gathered her up against him. His kiss was rough and spoke of longing and hurt and desperation and anger. But there was a joy, that ran through her like a tremor, and she thought that maybe she felt the same tremor course through him. It was an emotion that shone brighter than the sun and stung fiercer than pride. It was like a choir of great magnitude singing 'Hallelujah'.

She never wanted to let him go, and it didn't seem like he had thought of it. In fact, it seemed as if his arms were growing tighter around her, as if he was trying to pull her closer, as if he was trying to pull her into him. Their kiss grew more intense, more violent as their hands began to explore. One of Ron's hands crept lower down her back as the other fisted into her hair. Hermione's fingers moved from being balled in fists to lying flat against his chest, to up around his neck, clutching him closer and closer.

They were both panting, but neither wanted to move away, both afraid that once their lips were unlocked from the other's that the rejection, the anger, the violence would return. Ron knew that once he loosened his grip on the girl in his arms that she would be lost to him forever, separated by the death of Harry. But right now, she was clinging to him, kissing him. No one could have paid him enough Galleons to force him to let go. If this was his dying moment, it couldn't have been more perfect. In fact, he almost hoped one of the old Death Eater pals of Voldemort would show up and off him...but only at the exact the moment she realized what was going on and released him.

Something inside of Hermione was bubbling upwards; she didn't know if it was water, or blood, or fire—but _something_ was running through her. It raced towards her heart and bubbled around it. It felt like her heart was boiling; like her heart was sinking into a hot bath after being caught in a blizzard. All she wanted to do was let go and soak in this feeling, this wonderful, blissful, lovely emotion that was pervading every single part of her body. It took her a moment to realize that it was happiness.

I'm happy, she thought, sighing in contentment. I'm _happy_. Her lips curled upward in a smile, not realizing that Ron automatically copied her; his mouth forming into the same expression. She relished in the knowledge that she was happy, joyful even.

Slowly, she pulled herself away, but only a little bit. She didn't want to leave the circle of Ron's embrace, but she wanted to see if Ron was as happy as she was. But there wasn't the bliss she felt herself in his eyes. There was a question being asked of her, a question she knew the answer to, like most questions she encountered. But Ron didn't give her the chance to answer, because he jerked her back to him again, his mouth on hers. "Not yet, I'm not ready yet," he muttered as he began to kiss her desperately.

"Ready for what?" she tried to ask, but it was quite difficult with their mouths connected. What was wrong with him? There was nothing with wrong with her as the warm, fuzzy feelings began to course through her veins again. Why had she given this up? She wasn't going to let this go ever again.

She fisted his shirt in her hands, pulling herself up as close to his face as she could. The warm, lovely, calm feeling was quickly changing, transforming into a hot, wanton, wild feeling. She wanted everything in that moment. She wanted him to hold her, touch her, ravish her, own her completely.

Ron responded in kind, roughly grabbing her bottom, hoisting her upwards so she could wrap her legs around his waist. Trying to keep some semblance of balance, he began moving, lurching forward until Hermione's back collided against the wall.

She ignored the dull thud as other much more powerful, more pressing sensations came up. Her legs locked behind his back, clutching herself to him. She couldn't suppress the moan that rose as she felt their lower bodies come flush with each other.

As heat rose in her lower belly, she wondered again why she had walked away from this, why it had been two years since she had been held like this or wanted like this. In very few situations could Hermione Granger pass up thinking through a question that puzzled her, even as she gasped as Ron began to kiss along her jaw and down her neck.

And then she remembered. And it was like being doused by an icy cold bucket of water.

Ron felt her body go rigid and knew that his moment was up. Carefully, he took a step backwards, allowing Hermione to unlock her legs and slide down. His heart, flying high a few moments ago, took a sharp plummet towards the ground, akin to the feeling Harry must have had when he dove after the Snitch—knowledge that in all bloody likely he was going to smash his skull into the ground mingled the tiny, miniscule hope that maybe he'd manage to catch it.

Running his fingers through his hair, he met her eyes. There was no antagonism, at least. She hadn't moved to strike him or opened her mouth to scream at him. In fact, she hadn't moved since he had set her down. Moments passed as they stared at each other, neither truly sure of how they wanted to approach the stalemate they seemed to be in. Accustomed to taking the more aggressive approach in wizard's chess, Ron made the opening move. He spoke first.

"Umm… hullo."

Hermione blinked, startled by the simple salutation. "Hullo," she repeated softly as if she wasn't quite sure what it meant.

"Erm," Ron shifted his weight from one foot to another, "…how are you?" His tone suggested almost as if he were asking if this was the correct way to proceed in the conversation.

For some reason, the question ticked Hermione off and she flew into a rage. "How am I? _How am I_? I'm not fine. I told you to stay out of my life, out of my face and here you come waltzing in, two years and four months and eleven days later, break into my flat, and assault me! And now you ask me 'how am I'? You've a lot of nerve, Ronald Weasley."

And the tinder was set aflame.

"_I_ have a lot of nerve? Take a look in the mirror, Hermione. You just walk away from me and everyone else because _you_ think you have to handle this all on your own!"

"I can handle it all on my own, no thanks to you!"

"Oh, well, it sure as hell looks like you're handling it well—hiding from everyone except Ginny," he gestured at the mess on the floor, "looking at millions of old pictures, drinking an entire bottle of firewhiskey—you're handling this like a champion, Hermione. A true Hogwarts champion."

"How dare you! I can smell the alcohol on _your_ breath! Don't tell me _you_ haven't been drinking!"

"So what if I have? I'm not pretending anything. I'm drunk, I'm drunk as fucking hell, Hermione, and I don't give a damn about what I say! I'm drunk most nights, or hasn't Gin told you?" Hermione ducked, moved out of the way so that his flailing gestures would not strike her in the face. "In case she didn't tell you, I'm a fucking alcoholic. I spend most of my time in bloody pubs, with other losers who can only drink to deal with anything." It never dawned how much he hated how he was living his existence until now. "Those other blokes who screwed up their lives royally, they're the mates I'm hanging out with now. Go on, isn't it just bloody wonderful? Never thought that'd be the crowd I run with. I thought it'd be me, you, and Harry forever. Voldemort ruined that plan. Harry's dead and you're hiding from me. But hey, Hermione, guess what? I made a friend tonight. I met a _girl_ tonight. Yeah, that's right—_I_ met a girl. A girl at the bar and we talked—and she told me she could fall in love with me. You know what that's like to hear? Another girl could fall in love with me just after a few hours—and I can't do anything about it because I've been in love with you for ten years and even though I haven't talked to you in two, I still can't look at another girl!"

Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, jealousy, hurt, and shame washing through her. She was jealous of this girl at the bar, hurt because Ron didn't want to love her anymore, and ashamed because she had forgotten how much he loved her.

She chose to take the reins of her hurt, a feeling she had learned how to handle so well, and ride with it. "Go ahead then, Ron. Go fall in love with your girl at the bar. I'm sure you two will be very happy together. Go snog her and marry her and make love to her and forget all about me—forget all about everything that was ever important. You're so eager to forget things—go for it."

Ron roared. He knew exactly what she was trying to do. He had never been one to read, but he had read the book of Hermione like it was the greatest piece of literature ever written. He knew every word, every action, every thought, and every plot change, everything—he knew what she was trying to do, even if he didn't entirely understand it.

"You think I want to forget you? You actually think I want to fall in love with someone else? Are you out of your mind?" His voice softened and he stepped towards her. "Hermione, I love you. I can't stop, even if I wanted to try. Sometimes I wish I could, just so the pain in my chest—which I'm pretty sure is all your damn fault—will go away. But—but," his eyes dove into hers, his pain and his hurt and his love too much to look away from, "All I really want is you. Hermione, I _need_ you. I love you."

She felt the call of his heart, and felt her own heart long to respond. No, she thought fiercely. No, no, no. You can't just give in to him now because of what he's saying. Remember Harry. Remember Fred. Remember Tonks. Remember Lupin. Remember Dumbledore. Remember Sirius. Remember Moody. Remember, remember, remember.

She didn't realize she had begun chanting the word 'remember' aloud, her eyes closed and her fists balled.

He grabbed her raised fists and shook her. "Hermione, I'm not trying to make you forget. Do you think I could forget, even if I tried? D'you think I _want_ to forget?"

Her eyes flew open. "Yes. That's all you want to do, I know, Ron. You want to forget any of this ever happened. You want us to just be happy and perfect and wonderful, and forget anything ever dreadful ever happened. You want to forget Harry existed."

"Forget Harry existed? Are you mental? What I want is for him to come the bloody hell back, be my best mate, marry Ginny, and be the godfather of all _our_ tykes. If it weren't for the fact that stupid Ministry smashed all Time-Turners, I would have gone back and changed everything. I would've grabbed him and Fred, thrown myself in front of that damned curse, and be done with it all." He took a moment to refill his lungs, his words using up more oxygen that his lungs could hold. "But I can't. We can't. So we have to live with what it is. Harry died to save us all. You know that's what he wanted—"

"—he didn't want to die!" Hermione shrieked.

Ron rolled his eyes. "I know he didn't _want_ to die. Let me get my words out, for Merlin's sake I never make any bloody sense the first time I saw something. You, of all people, should know that."

Hermione lowered her eyes. She, of all people, knew that Ron had to spit things out more than once before it made any sense. It may have been two years, four months, and eleven days since she had seen him last, but that did not diminish the strength of her knowledge of his mind, his mouth, and his heart.

"He didn't want to die, but he didn't want anyone else to die for him. He _saved_ all of us—he _loved_ all of us. And he saved us so that we could be alive. He didn't die so that we could be miserable and sit around missing him. I know him just as damn well as you do. You keep saying that all I want to do is forget, and all you want to do is remember. I think that you just want to forget any happy memories and only remember being miserable. Where's the sense in that, Hermione?"

"Sense! You come here, trying to talk to _me _about sense?" She laughed, a hysterical, mirthless, broken sound. "That's rich. Come on, trying to talk some sense into me, are you? Go on, intervene with _your_ brand of sense."

Her choked giggle was muffled by the force of Ron's lips on hers.

There was no hesitation in her reciprocation.

_**Guess I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all  
**__**It's a quarter after one, I'm all alone  
**__**And I need you now  
**__**And I said I wouldn't call but I'm a little drunk  
**__**And I need you now**_

This time, it was Ron who pulled away.

"No," he panted, forcing himself to put distance between himself and Hermione. He stood up, using the bed springs to bring him to his feet. His heart beat ferociously against his rib cage.

Hermione looked around her, eyes unfocused, clothing rumpled. Her hair was spread across her floral print bed sheets, her bare feet tangled in the purple covering. She sat up. "No what?" she gasped, just as out of breathe as he. She didn't like the separation, and that irritated her. And how on earth had they ended up in her bedroom?

"No." Ron's voice was flat. "We can't do this. We have to figure everything out first." His voice was laced with frustration. Agitated, he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Figure what out?" Hermione demanded.

"_Us_."

"There's nothing to figure out," Hermione replied. Her voice, so hot and venomous, was now cool and even. "You'll walk out this door and we'll go on just as we have for the past two years."

"You want to keep doing what you've been doing for the past two years? You want to live in misery? Blimey, Hermione. Why? Why?"

"I don't want to be miserable, you imbecile!" she shouted. "You think I _want_ to be like _this_? You think I _want_ to feel like I can't breathe? You think that I _want_ to feel like a clogged spigot, ready to burst with tears but I can't seem to find the damn handle? I can't cry, Ron, and I don't know why." Her voice flattened. "I never want to forget Harry. I want to honor his memory. I _have_ to be miserable. _That's_ _all._"

"Hermione, I love you," Ron spoke softly. She snorted. Cautiously he sat down on her bed, next to her. "I do. I love you. _I love you._ And you love me. I hope. It's never been easy for me to tell you that. But it's all I've got. You're all I've got. And we were all Harry had. We had our families, and then we had Harry. We were Harry's family. We _are_ Harry's family. Harry did for us what his parents did for him. D'you think James and Lily would have wanted him to be miserable for the rest of his life because they died? I don't think they did. And Harry wouldn't want you to, wouldn't want me to."

"How do you know this, Ron? Did he tell you? Or are you making it up?" Hermione's tone was disbelieving, sarcastic, condescending.

"I knew _Harry_. 'Mione, I knew Harry. I know him. He's my best mate. You know how many times he tried to strike off on his own, trying to protect us. Oy, you think this wasn't one of those times? It was. He just managed to get away with it." Ron rubbed his own head. "Yeah. It sucks. But Harry wouldn't want to ruin our lives by dying. He didn't die so that we would die too. He saved us so that we could live. He'd be pissed if he saw us now." Ron paused, allowing himself a tiny grin. "He wouldn't know how the hell to fix it. Probably just moody around, hoping we'd patch up ourselves. But he wouldn't like it."

Logic, Hermione's soul, took over. Ron's words, his motivations, her knowledge, her grief, their history, their love, and everything about Harry all began multiplying, adding, subtracting, dividing, rationalizing. Her brilliant brain whirred back and forth, processing the information – analyzing it for the correct answer. Never just the acceptable answer, but the correct answer. Hermione Granger would never settle for anything but right, one hundred percent right.

And like a calculator, the factors all equaled one certain answer.

Ron was right.

Damn him, he was right. How could she have been so pathetically, utterly, disastrously stupid? Inside of her, walls around her heart that had held fast for so long were beginning to crumble. Throughout the night, throughout the past years, bricks and stones had fallen away, but slowly, one at a time. Now, the foundations of that wall were shaking, rattling where they were supposed to stand firm. Her convictions, her stone wall, were disturbed, becoming a fall of rubble, letting the ram of Ron's words through. She couldn't stave off the attack any longer and she was not sure she wanted to. This was no invading siege. This was the liberating army.

"Ron, I'm sorry. I—"

He watched her face, his eyes suspicious, his tone incredulous. "You're _sorry_? That's what you're saying now? No more accusations of not giving a damn?"

"No, no." Her voice was small. "I just—I just…I dunno."

Ron scoffed, but hope rose in his chest. "The great Hermione Granger doesn't know."

Her eyes snapped at him. "Don't condescend me." Her glaring eyes filled with tears, which she blinked desperately to hold back. "It wasn't like I wanted—I don't know…"

"You can admit _now_ that you don't know? What about then? Did you 'know' then? Huh?"

"You don't know what the hell you are talking about!" The fire of her anger dried the tears from her eyes.

"Neither do you!"

"I was the cleverest witch of our year! I know what I'm talking about!"

Ron burst out in laughter. "We're not in school anymore, Hermione. You can't prove your brains by a one-hundred-and-twelve-percent Charms exam."

Hermione's heart was used to taking beatings and she held steady as she felt this new bruise developing. Her eyes met Ron's, and she saw his instant regret.

"Hey," he said, his voice gentle. He reached out cautiously and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I shouldn't have said it like that. It's just…" he could feel his own tears building inside him. "I needed you so badly after it all happened. You are the only one who knew Harry like I did. We were the ones that were there the whole time. And then you shut yourself off so tightly, only remembering him—I thought you were forgetting me. I guess, I guess I deserved it."

"Deserved it?" Hermione repeated, feeling like a little girl.

"You ran out on me when I needed you, just like when I ran out on you and Harry."

Hermione hadn't thought of it that way. She had been so selfish, so upset—and now she realized Ron had done the exact same thing. His jealousy and frustration had welled up, fueled by the horcrux locket; her own emotions had been fueled by the horcrux of Harry's death.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. Ron tried to pull her to him, to hold her, but she couldn't let him. He needed to be angry at her, for her running away, for her torturing him—she deserved to be punished. Even if all she wanted was for him to hold her and comfort her and forgive her.

Misinterpreting her pulling away, his response was curt. "Is that all you can say?"

Hermione met his eyes, trying to make him understand. "It's just…it hurts. Looking at these pictures…it hurts. You don't—"

"You still think I don't understand?" he thundered. "That every time I see his picture or hear his name that it doesn't feel like someone's _Crucio_'d my heart? You think that I don't know what it's like? Not to mention, besides Harry, I lost my brother! I lost Fred _and_ Harry. D'you really think _I_ don't get it? I may have the emotional range of a teaspoon, Hermione, but, trust me, I understand."

"Ron, that's not what I meant!" she screamed, but the scream wasn't directed at him. It was directed at her heart, at her brain. And with that noise, all control broke over her, the dam gave out, and she began to cry.

Great fat tears leaked from her eyes; huge unrelenting sobs poured from her mouth—over and over they came. Horrified, Ron twisted his long arms around her, pulling her towards him, leaning her head on his shoulder, feeling the water soak through his shirt. All he could do was stroke her hair and wish his mouth wasn't so big and his temper so hot. And Hermione allowed it, let him pull her in, let him hold her, let him comfort him, let him sorrow with her. Finally she untangled herself from his embrace, her eyes still running, but her lips curved upwards in a small smile.

"Thank you," she whispered to Ron's concerned and confused look. "Don't you see? I'm crying, Ron. _Crying_!"

"And that makes you happy?" he asked timidly, unsure what this meant.

"Yes," Hermione answered. "Yes."

Ron's mouth crooked upwards, as he let his eyes run over her precious face. He liked her happy face best of all, but even with tears, she was the most incredible creature in the world. He wanted to convey this sentiment, but the words that came out of his mouth probably did not clue her in the way he wished.

"I will never understand girls."

_**And I don't know how I can do without  
**__**I just need you now  
**__**I just need you now  
**__**Ooo, baby, I need you now**_

"So… we're good now?" Ron asked tentatively.

"I don't know about good," she said slowly. "But," she continued, cutting him off, "I do know now that I can't do this without you."

"That's good enough for me," Ron replied.

Hermione smiled at him, a beautiful look across such a tired face. The feelings in her heart were similar to that of the earth after a violent storm, awash from the water and the wind, damage strewn everywhere. Despite the inevitable repair ahead, there was a cleanliness, a pureness in the atmosphere: a new start. She knew her heart wasn't healed: there would be more storms. But this was a new beginning, a new chapter, a sequel.

A sequel in which one character certainly could not do without the other.

* * *

**Let me know if you liked. A little dark, a lot angsty, probably a lot OOC - apologies. Reviews are the best. **

Also, I should credit **TeamStarkid** for the inspiration for a line, provided through _A Very Potter Musical_: "Every time I look at her, there is a pain in my chest. And I know it's her fault - that bitch!":)


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